Into the Mirror Black
by Bloodsong 13T
Summary: Arrow Season 3: It is Christmas Eve. Oliver has gone to face Ra's al Ghul, and has not returned. Malcolm has nightmares about the things he's done, the people he's killed. (It's "A Christmas Carol," but it is not crack.)
1. Into the Mirror Black

**Into the Mirror Black**

* * *

 _CONTENT:_  
Rating: Teen  
Flavor: Drama, Angst  
Language: none  
Violence: none  
Nudity: none  
Sex: none  
Other: none

 _Author's Note:_

As if I didn't have other things I'm SUPPOSED to be doing... uh, here's a blatant "A Christmas Carol" story. But no, it is not crack.

This just happened... in the middle (start) of June... because I was thinking about Malcolm after he sabotaged The Queen's Gambit, and wondering if he had lost any sleep over it. And imagining the nightmares he might have about his best friend returning to haunt him. The image of Robert's ghost brought to mind Marley's ghost, and... the rest just happened. Like I said.

The title (with help/support from Dark Empress) is from an album by Sanctuary. Props to all the Sanctuary fans! \m/

This takes place on December 24, 2014 (or actually, the wee hours of December 25). Oliver left a few days ago to face Ra's al Ghul, and hasn't been heard from since. (If that didn't happen exactly in that timeframe on the show, tough; it happened that way in this story, cuz I say it happened that way in this story.)

* * *

Philosophy cannot soothe your soul

But in the mirror the truth will be known.

...

In the mirror

You might not like what you see;

For the mirror

Reflects the fears that you feel.

In the mirror

You might not like what you see.

The mirror, the mirror's calling.

 _"The Mirror Black" - Sanctuary_

* * *

 **Into the Mirror Black**

===#===

Malcolm Merlyn suffered nightmares. Oh, you wouldn't know it to look at him; he'd spent a lifetime cultivating an impassive facade, an iron will, an icy mien. But deep inside, he was only human. Mistakes vexed him. The recently dead plagued him, until he could force them to rest, bury his guilt. He was the master of his own mind, after all. Eventually.

Oliver Queen returned of nights, broken and bloody, to exact vengeance. Sometimes they fought, Malcolm losing strength as the relentless archer overwhelmed him. At other times, he was helpless to move at all, his pleas, his explanations falling on deaf ears. Oliver came at him with a sword this time, not a narrow little arrow shaft. The huge blade sundered his heart. Brutal pain would wake him in shock.

That's why, when Malcolm awoke and found Robert sitting in his room, he was surprised. He hadn't dreamed about his old friend in over seven years. "Robert?" Malcolm asked groggily, sitting up. He looked around for Robert's boy, but there was no sign of him. No, the bedroom looked exactly as it should, barring the spectre of his murdered friend. "You're not really here." He rubbed his face, knowing he must be dreaming, but not sure how to wake up.

"You've always had something of a God Complex, Malcolm." Robert sounded exactly as he remembered.

Feeling at a disadvantage lying abed, Malcolm got up. When he stood, he found himself clothed in the familiar layers of one of his dark suits. Unconsciously, he tightened the already tight tie, straightened the already straight jacket.

"You can't keep on like this," Robert said, tipping his head in apparent concern.

"I have to. I can't just give up and die."

"There are always alternatives, Malcolm. You showed me that."

"I always found the best alternatives," he insisted. It was the root of his success.

"I don't think my children would agree with that."

 _Thea is mine._ These words were on the tip of his tongue, but he refrained from saying them aloud, from causing his old friend any more pain. He was dead, why torment him? He turned away. "I did what I had to do."

"For yourself."

"What do you want, Robert?"

The man sighed and stood up. "What I want doesn't matter. I'm only the messenger."

"Messenger of what?" Malcolm faced him again, feeling a faint tinge of unease.

"Surely you know how this goes? You've read the story, haven't you? Or at least seen it on TV hundreds of times."

Malcolm frowned to himself. He looked over at the shelf, where an antique beehive clock stood ticking quietly. The hands stood at 12:03. On Christmas Eve. "A visit from the ghost of an old business acquaintance?" he mused. He looked back to Robert with a quirked brow. "Am I supposed to expect three ghosts to visit and show me the true meaning of Christmas?"

"Something like that."

Malcolm scoffed in dry humor. "You're joking." He rubbed his forehead. This is what he was dreaming? He really shouldn't have had the heavy cheese sauce and the Muir-Hanna Chardonnay at dinner. "If you're Marley, shouldn't you be wrapped in chains?"

Robert shook his head. "I cast off my chains when I decided to oppose you and your Undertaking. You are the one bearing their weight, my friend."

"Why do you care? I killed you."

"I was never your enemy, Malcolm."

"You tried to stop me!"

Robert's eyes met his, full of sorrow. "As your friend, Malcolm. Never as your enemy."

Malcolm wanted to press him for more, but Robert suddenly faded, like a dream upon awakening. Now Malcolm stood alone in his darkened room. Was he awake now? But how had he gotten dressed? He surely didn't remember doing so. Had he been sleepwalking?

The antique clock chimed softly, drawing his gaze. How had it become 1 am so quickly? He must have been dreaming, but surely he was awake now.

Then he felt a presence in his room. Slowly, he turned, tensing for a fight...

=== _X_ ===


	2. I

**Into the Mirror Black: I**

* * *

 _CONTENT:_  
Rating: Teen  
Flavor: Drama, Angst  
Language: none  
Violence: a bit  
Nudity: none  
Sex: none  
Other: none

 _Author's Note:_

As the clock strikes one...

* * *

 **I**

===#===

Malcolm turned to the man standing by the foot of the bed. Another spectre that had haunted his nightmares for many, many nights. At least, until he had rescued Thea from that train station.

"Tommy."

All the hope, the fear, the love, the pain, the guilt his presence caused filled that one simple word.

Malcolm reined back his emotions. It was only a dream, after all. It would not control him. "You're the Ghost of Christmas Past?"

Tommy shook his head. "Forget the Christmas crap, Dad. For once, this is, in fact, all about you." Yes, that was Tommy's biting acerbity all right. Then he softened. "Please. I need you to see this."

He offered his hand.

Malcolm wanted, more than anything in that moment, to be able to touch his son again. Mistrustful of this vulnerability, he almost pulled back, almost turned away. But he was weak. His hand closed over the faintly warm skin; Tommy gripped him firmly.

There was the hint of motion, like a silent train passing behind a screen of trees. Then they were no longer in the bedroom, but standing in the yard under the old pine at the mansion. It all looked preternaturally real. Different windows of the mansion lit up, like scenes in a diorama.

First, in the living room windows. Despite Tommy's assertion that this wasn't 'Christmas crap,' that was the first scene. A tall, brightly decorated tree stood within, a mountain of presents beneath it, Malcolm and Rebecca, smiling and laughing. They had allowed their toddler to overindulge in sugar, and little Tommy roared around the house, arms out as if he were flying, squealing in glee.

The light dimmed, and then there was a lone tree. Malcolm had tried to carry on, that first Christmas without Rebecca, but the light was gone from their lives. The windows grew darker, the house silent. Then a cry broke the stillness, a child's voice in the night. "Momma..." But his mother was gone. "Daddy...! Daddy?" No, he was gone as well. "Nana, where's my daddy?" There was no reply.

Again the diorama changed. Now a light burned in the lower level, revealing Malcolm bent at his desk, absorbed in his work. Another light burned in the west wing, upstairs, where Tommy played by himself. The child grew, his toys changed. A plastic car. An action figure. A baseball. A video game. The young teen paced nervously, dressed up to go to a dance. An older teen struggled not to cry over a lost love. All the while, the silent man stayed in his room, his back turned.

"You were never there when I needed you."

Malcolm bit his lip. Oh, he'd been there. There to bail Tommy out of jail, to buy off the paparazzi to keep the more embarrassing photos of Tommy out of the papers, to pay off the debts for the cars Tommy wrecked, the hotel rooms he'd trashed. None of these were the point. His son had led a lonely life. "I had to leave," Malcolm told him. "I had to do something to make this world a better place."

"You could have done that another way. Any other way." Tommy threw his arms out in frustration. "All the charities, all the good works, that whole Humanitarian of the Year thing - that could have been you. The _real_ you, not some sham to hide what you truly are!"

Malcolm faced him. "It didn't work, Tommy. It was never enough. I wanted to see Starling City rebuilt into a better place, a safer place - for you, for everyone."

"You know, that's your problem, Dad. You're so focused on this goal of yours that it's all you can see. You don't care who you trample over to get there; you don't care who you damage, who you push aside. And when you get there, you never turn around and see the destruction you left behind."

The scene shifted and changed. Instead of the mansion, there were gutted buildings, partially collapsed. The streets were cracked and broken, lamp posts fallen over, dirt and debris everywhere. Decay.

"This isn't how it was supposed to be," Malcolm insisted. "It was supposed to be wiped clean, to be rebuilt anew, even better than it was before!"

"Your Utopia is nothing but rubble!"

Malcolm opened his mouth to argue, but suddenly the ground heaved under them. He was thrown away from Tommy. The ground kept shaking, the whole world roaring in the earthquake. Structures toppled, sparks flew from torn lines, people screamed and ran. Malcolm struggled to move back to his son. They had to escape!

He grasped at Tommy's arm, shouted at him, but his voice was lost in the din. Tommy looked past him. Malcolm turned and saw a building cave in on itself, spewing dust and rubble. Tommy broke free and ran towards it.

"Tommy! No! No, don't go in there!" He was heading to his death. " _Tommy!_ " His name tore desperately from Malcolm's throat.

 _I can save him!_ He wanted to run after his son, but his legs wouldn't move. _I can save him. I_ will _save him!_ Malcolm strained, but only managed to stagger forward half a step. "Tommy!" He stretched out his arms to pull his son back, but he couldn't reach. He knew in his heart he'd never see Tommy again.

The building collapsed completely, and choking dust blotted out the light.

"...Tommy..."

He was gone.

=== _X_ ===


	3. II

**Into the Mirror Black: II**

 _CONTENT:_  
Rating: Teen  
Flavor: Drama, Angst  
Language: not really  
Violence: only verbal  
Nudity: none  
Sex: none  
Other: none

 _Author's Note:_

The second hour.

* * *

 **II**

===#===

Malcolm walked through the silent, broken streets. They were empty now, devoid of life. Much like his heart. He took a deep breath. _It's only a dream._ But he still felt the raw pain of losing his son again.

He walked, head down, unmindful of where he wandered or for how long. The pavement all looked the same beneath his shoes. Then from above came a low toll, followed by another. He startled and looked up. It was the old clock tower, still standing, though with chunks of its roof missing.

A dark silhouette flew from the tower. It landed, more catlike than bird, on the sidewalk a few yards away. A woman in black stalked towards him, her hair luminescent in the shadows.

Malcolm bristled. "Sara Lance."

"Malcolm Merlyn." She moved with the deadly grace of a League member. She flicked her hair over her shoulder and cocked her head up at him. "Shame we never really got to meet properly."

"What do you want?"

"I want to show you the error of your ways," she growled.

"You know nothing about me. You have no right to judge-"

"Just like you had no right to take my life?"

Malcolm deflected that guilt with a flick of his hand. "The League could have sent anyone to try to tail me."

"But you're so glad it was _me_. That way, you could use Nyssa's grief and rage at my death to turn her against her own father, to get the League to destroy itself in a civil war." Her eyes flashed. "How is that working out for you?"

"It could still happen."

"Well, I'm _so_ glad my death wasn't for _no good reason!_ "

"You wanted out of the League as much as I wanted to be free of them," he snarled at her. "You know the only way out, short of destroying the entire League, is to die."

"So, what? I'm supposed to _thank_ you for 'freeing' me, like I wanted?" She spit out her words in anger. "Did it ever occur to you that I would rather be alive? That _that_ as the reason I chose to return to the League?"

"If you want an apology, forget it." He didn't back down; he edged forward, ready for a fight. "You knew the risks working for the League. You went up against an enemy of the League, and you got killed. Are you surprised?"

She didn't seem to have an answer for that. "And what does Thea think about it all?" she asked instead.

Mollified by this minor triumph, he eased back. "She doesn't know anything about that. And she never will. She is innocent."

"She _was_. And then you used her. You made her kill." Sara looked away, her expression pained. "There is no coming back from that. She has blood on her hands, and it's only a matter of time before she starts to feel it."

"That's nonsense! There is no mystical stigmata on her. A person is defined by their thoughts and memories."

She shook her head. "You seriously underestimate the power of the subconscious mind."

"Well, a dream would say that," he scoffed.

"You don't even care about Thea as a person. She's nothing more than a tool to you."

"That's not true! I love her." The words came out a bit more shakily than he had wanted.

"You only love yourself," Sara sneered. "You turned her - your own flesh and blood - into a mindless killer. You don't care how badly you damage your children, as long as you get what you want."

Malcolm flinched, only slightly. As he turned away, the clock tower melted into the shadows of a graveyard. There, he saw Laurel, putting flowers on an old grave. Sara's grave.

Thea walked over from Moira's grave site. "Laurel? What's wrong?" Neither young woman seemed to notice their silent watchers.

"I... I was just... visiting Sara."

"At her grave? But... Sara's still alive." Thea frowned slightly. "Isn't she?"

Tears slid down Laurel's face. "No. No, I'm sorry; she's not. She... she was killed recently."

" _What?_ "

There, thought Malcolm. Thea had no idea. Thea was innocent, just as he'd always planned.

Thea's face crumpled, her eyes glittered in the faint cemetery lights, then spilled over. "I'm so sorry, Laurel. Sara... she was a good friend." The two women hugged, supporting each other in their grief.

Malcolm swallowed, but his voice was still a bit husky. "I'm sorry she lost her friend. But she has not lost her innocence."

"She hasn't lost only a friend," Sara said, rounding in front of him. "You sent her brother off to die."

"He was the best choice to face Ra's. I... I thought he could defeat him." He bit back his words; he didn't need to explain himself to her. "Do you think I would have backed a plan I knew was doomed to failure?"

"Hey, if Ollie got himself killed, then Thea would have only you left as the sole survivor of her family." She leaned back; now a railing was there, the railing outside of Malcolm's apartment. "No one to stand between you and her, vying for her affections. Don't tell me you're not gloating over that."

"I would _never_ hurt Thea!"

Sara said nothing, just pressed her lips into a tight, disbelieving line. She flicked her hair back again, and Malcolm looked past her shoulder. He moved to the rail next to her, where he could see into the loft, lit up again, like one of those dioramas he had seen at the mansion. He could see, and now hear, everything clearly, as if he were in the same room.

The tall, nearly two storey tree bathed the loft in a golden glow, twinkling brightly with lights and tinsel and shiny ornaments. Thea sat cross-legged on the floor at its foot, the space devoid of presents. In her hands, she held two clay snowmen, homemade ornaments crafted by the hands of a child.

Tears fell silently from her eyes as she spoke to the one in the green scarf, the name OLIVER emblazoned on it. "This is not a proper holiday," she complained in a thick voice. "Where are you? You don't call, you don't answer your voice mail." She sniffled. "You know, I asked Roy to ask the Arrow to try to track you down. That's how desperate I am, Ollie. Hell, I might even ask Dad to try to find you. You'd better be all right!"

She swiped her face and looked up, up at the incredibly tall tree. "The smaller the family, the bigger the tree, right?" She choked out a bitter laugh. "My tree needs to be infinitely bigger, since I seem to have no one." For a moment, she was overwhelmed by emotion. Then she hung the snowmen on the lowest branch of the tree. "Please, Ollie." Her voice was high with grief, like a child's again. "We lost Mom. I can't lose you, too. Not again. Please? I don't want to be alone."

 _I'm here_ , Malcolm wanted to tell her. Her tears cut him to the heart. All he wanted was to make everything right for his little girl. His throat closed. He couldn't. Oliver was surely dead. And it was his fault. What could he do?

Thea turned off the lights of the tree, plunging the world into darkness. Somewhere, an antique clocked chimed, and Malcolm feared his daughter was lost to him as well.

"...Thea..."

She was all alone.

=== _X_ ===


	4. III

**Into the Mirror Black: III**

 _CONTENT:_  
Rating: Teen  
Flavor: Drama, Angst  
Language: some  
Violence: some  
Nudity: none  
Sex: none  
Other: none

 _Author's Note:_

3 am, the hour of death.

* * *

 **III**

===#===

Darkness and cold engulfed the world. The railing grew icy under Malcolm's bare hands; he released it. He suffered a momentary loss of equilibrium, when he couldn't tell if he stood on a high balcony or on the ground. When he reached to touch the rail again, it was gone. Gone, too, was the ghost of Sara Lance.

The ground beneath his feet was cold. It was definitely ground, he could feel it now through the soles of his shoes. His outstretched arms still met nothing but empty air. He stood still, waiting for his eyes to adjust, or for the darkness to lift. Perhaps he would open his eyes and see his bedroom again.

After what seemed like an interminable time, he did notice a lightening of the area where he was standing. He turned, trying to get his bearings. From the thick darkness, a tall figure emerged, even blacker, hooded. "Isn't this a little cliche'?" Malcolm asked. His voice sounded dead in the night. He turned further, looked around. They were standing in a graveyard, he and the figure in the garb of the League assassins. "Yeah, typical." He kept his voice irreverent, trying to deny the sense of unease growing within him.

The figure lifted a gloved hand and pointed at a gravestone.

"I suppose I'm doomed to die, cold and alone, unloved," he complained sarcastically. He tried to disassociate any feelings from these words, but deep inside, they pained him. He was determined to fight that fate.

The figure only pointed. Immovable. Implacable.

Malcolm steeled himself. "Fine. If I must." He walked closer to the indicated marker. The name CHRISTOPHER GREENFELD was carved upon the stone. He frowned slightly. "I don't know who that is."

The figure moved down the row, pointed to the next gravestone.

"Damon Reed," Malcolm read, still confused. They moved on to the next. "Brenda Adams. Is this supposed to mean something to me?"

Imperiously, the figure pointed at the grave.

Malcolm shook his head. "What am I supposed to be seeing?" He looked again, and this time, he read the whole thing. "Brenda Adams. Born October 11, 1988. Died May fi-" His voice died in his throat. "May 15, 2013." The Undertaking.

He looked down the rest of the row. Rows. The markers all had the Starling City logo at the top, dedicated to the earthquake victims. He read the next stone. Robin Adams, Born June 6, 2006. Died, May 15, 2013. Mother and child died together.

He cut a glare at the silent figure. "This is the past," he said tightly. "If you're the ghost of the future, shouldn't you show me something I don't already know?"

The dark spectre only pointed again, this time through the rows of gravestones.

"What?" Malcolm asked belligerently. "More lives? Or should I say, deaths? Is that your message?"

The figure shook its head.

"Who are you?" Malcolm stepped closer, peered into the shadowed hood. He caught a glimpse of colourless eyes. "I know who you are - Oliver! Trying to turn me to your ways? Of granting people second chances? Of mercy, and your pledge not to kill?"

The figure shook its head again, pointed.

"Then what? Guilt? You should have been stronger! You should have been able to kill him! You had the skill! You nearly killed yourself to defeat me. Why couldn't you use that indomitable conviction to kill Ra's al Ghul?"

Impatiently, the figure pointed, then moved forward between the graves.

Malcolm dogged it. "I thought you-!" Then he saw someone there, in the graveyard; a woman in white. She knelt before one of the graves, weeping. "Is that... Laurel?" He edged closer. "Crying over Sara. We've been over this; this is the _past_. I have to live with my decisions, and I accept that. I accept the guilt, the consequences, all of it. But I made those decisions, and I've made my peace with them."

The figure shook its head, slowly. It raised its arm, pointed at the woman.

Malcolm looked again. He looked at the gravestone; it was different from the others. He saw the words etched upon it: _Beloved Son_. "Tommy?" His eyes shifted to the weeping woman. His mouth formed her name, though no sound issued from his lips. "Rebecca."

His dead wife was here, mourning their son. He backed away. The dark figure grabbed his arm, tried to shove him forward. Imperiously, it pointed towards the woman.

"I can't," he said in a breathless panic. "I can't face her. No! No, not... not now." What could he say? How could he explain? How could he atone? He fought loose from the dark figure's grip.

The figure released him and strode forward. It drew a sword.

"Wait, what are you-? No!" Malcolm saw the figure raise the blade, but he was frozen, paralyzed by fear. The figure lashed down viciously, shearing through the woman's neck. She crumpled, lifeless, headless, blood staining her dress crimson. " _No!_ "

The figure spun the blade, shedding blood from the edge. It sheathed the weapon. It turned back to Malcolm, beckoned him. Its eyes were cold within the shadow-shrouded hood.

Malcolm showed his teeth. "Now I know you. Ra's al Ghul! You couldn't kill me, so you do this? You think you can get to me through my family? You bastard!"

The figure shook its head slowly, almost mockingly.

"You coward!" Malcolm moved forward. "Give me a sword; we can end this right now!"

He stopped as the figure spoke. Its voice was a low rumble, disguised with a voice modulator. "You can't kill me."

"You are _not_ immortal," he growled. "I will find a way, if it's the last thing I do! I won't stop until you are dead. I will destroy you!"

"You can't defeat me." The deep modulation began to fade; the voice became lighter, with a warmer tone, almost familiar.

"I will not rest until I bring your empire crashing down! I will do anything it takes," Malcolm threatened. "I will kill your friends, I will rip away your allies, even destroy your minions who follow your every command. You will be alone, vulnerable and weak, and you will _never_ get to me."

"You can't escape me."

Burning cold shot through Malcolm's veins as he recognized that voice. The figure pulled off its hood, revealing a face he knew, the face he saw in the mirror every day. The figure sneered at him, its eyes like ice chips.

"No," Malcolm breathed. His limbs went numb; his mind frozen in shock.

"...No..."

He was his own fate.

=== _X_ ===

* * *

 _End Notes:_

-So, Bloodsong, where's the last chapter? You know, where Malcolm wakes up and is all "Oh! I haven't missed Christmas! It's not too late to change my ways! God bless us, every one!"?

Uh, yeah. I don't think that happens.

-So what does happen?

Well, I think (barring details I got wrong about who is where and doing what on Christmas Eve) this story can just drop into canon. Malcolm wakes up and basically hasn't really changed. It was just a dream, after all. (Right?) Or... has he changed? Perhaps in subtle ways we won't really see until years down the road.

By the way, now that you know who the shadowy figure is that Malcolm is talking to (if you didn't figure it out before), go back and review what he says to 'Oliver' and 'Raz.' ;)

 **===!===**  
PS: can folks please not post spoilers in the reviews? like don't mention what happens, exactly. thanks so much! :)


End file.
